


DAI - First Impressions

by rprambles



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Banter, Chronic Pain, Dick Jokes, Fear, First Meetings, Gay Character, Gen, Pain Management, Panic Attack, Past Abuse, Physical Disability, abuse mention, handwaved Antivan, olek your thirst is showing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-10-13 17:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20585963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rprambles/pseuds/rprambles
Summary: thanks to LuciFern for beta-reading and letting me ramble ideas!





	1. Soldier, Poet, King

A final thrust and the shade withers away. Cassandra looks for the next, but they're alone in the snow again. She turns to the prisoner when he speaks, alarm shooting through her at the glint of metal in his hands. "Drop your weapon now!"

The daggers clatter against the ice. The dwarf raises his hands, taking a quick step back.

"Wait." No, she'd spoken too soon. The valley ahead is dangerous. She sheathes her sword and steps forward, picking up the daggers and holding them out hilt-first. "I cannot expect you to be defenseless."

He looks at the daggers, then hesitantly meets her gaze. After a moment he takes them, a slight tremble in his hands. "...okay."

She knows she can be intimidating, but this... this is not what she expected from someone who destroyed the Conclave. Cassandra tucks that wondering away. She can consider that after they are out of danger.

  


* * *

  


He's trying not to get attached, honestly. This is obviously a tragedy in the making and he's had his fill of those. But the guy's so jumpy and scared and Varric can already feel himself worrying about him.

And it's a long walk, why not make conversation? "So, I'm guessing fellow surface dwarf? Maybe part of the Carta."

His fellow dwarf eyes him warily. "What makes you say that?"

"I can spot a proper Orzammar dwarf from twenty paces." He can, they're really obvious. "Plus you have that shifty smuggler look."

The caution fades to humor. "M'not the only one."

"Varric did not destroy the Conclave," Cassandra snaps. Instantly the dwarf shrinks in again, gaze on his boots.

Varric bites back a scowl, smirking instead. "That you know of. We shifty smuggler types can be tricky." Cassandra scoffs, but the dwarf meets his gaze with a tiny smile. Yeah, he's attached. Shit.

  


* * *

  


He's not what Solas expected. Though none of this is what he expected. The theft of the orb, someone surviving that blast, wielding the Anchor. It's tempting to take it, but that would be rash. He needs time to plan out what to do next.

And the dwarf adapts quickly. He's clearly confused and scared, but he doesn't run. Even the pulse of the Mark seems to affect him a little less each time as he adjusts to it. A natural resilience, perhaps.

Solas thinks of who could have received the Anchor and decides it could be worse.


	2. Council of Three

Leliana watches Cassandra and Roderick trading barbs, wondering if Roderick will run out of hot air before Cassandra runs out of patience. She’s almost a little disappointed when the door creaks open and cuts the conversation short, the subject of discussion peering in. "Uh, excuse me-"

"Chain him!" Roderick barks and in a blink the dwarf is gone again.

Leliana holds her tongue. The templars march out at Cassandra’s order and she follows. There’s no sign of the dwarf, but plenty of places to hide. She stops in the center of the hall and calls out, “It’s alright. Cassandra and I do not agree with the Chancellor. You will not be harmed.”

No response. She looks around again and almost misses him, peering out from behind some furniture. She steps a little closer and allows herself a gentle smile. "I am Leliana."

He stands slowly, wincing a little. "Olek. Olek Cadash." 

  


* * *

  


It's hard to hear much past the clatter of recruits bashing into each other, but after a while Cullen can make out a steady thunking sound. Walking past the tents, he finds the Herald squaring off with one of the burlap dummies. Two knives stick out of its chest and another sinks in.

"Oh, hi." Olek waves. "Not in the way, am I?"

"Not at all. I certainly won't deny you a chance to practice."

"Just gettin' used t' the new knives Harrit gave me." He flips one of the daggers before throwing it into the dummy. "Carta gear isn't near as nice as this."

"Oh?"

Olek lifts his coat, revealing a harness to hold a couple small daggers. Cullen recognizes Harrit's work in one, the other chipped and a little rusted. And... "Is that a knitting needle?"

"Yeah." Olek plucks it out. "Rhom, that's one of my crew, gave it t' me before I left. Not as good with it as they are."

Cullen raises a brow as the needle sinks into the dummy's throat. "If that's true I hope I never piss them off."

Olek grins. "Smart, Commander." 

  


* * *

  


So far everything about Olek is controversial. A dwarf hailed as the Herald of Andraste, one who believes in the Stone. She has her work cut out for her. It's a bit of a shame, because Olek seems perfectly charming, in a rough sort of way. Which reminds her of another question. "Leliana told me some rumors, stories that connect you with a criminal organization. The dwarven Carta, specifically."

Her hopes that it's just rumor fall flat when Olek winces. "_Mierda_. Was wonderin' when that'd come up."

"Oh dear. Only smuggling, I hope? Exchanging goods on the surface?"

"Yeah." He nods quickly. "Lyrium, fancy shit for nobles. Never had the stomach for the rough stuff."

That's a relief. She can spin that to their benefit. "I will handle the subject carefully, I assure you. I doubt you miss that life."

"Oh, fuck no." Olek grins, bouncing a little on his heels. "You guys gave me a bed! In it's own little house and shit. And I got new clothes and Varric says I can eat as much as I want? I gotta test that. And nobody's tried t' beat me up - yet, anyway. I mean, I miss my crew, but this is still the best job I've ever had."

Josephine feels her heart break a little. "I- I see. Well..._siéntete como en tu casa._"

The dwarf smiles crookedly and bows. "_Gracias_."


	3. Ladies Fair

“Oh the Storm Coast may yet claim these bones, but I’ll sail until they do. So tell the girls I’m coming home with coin enough for two.” 

Harding keeps her voice low, barely singing enough to be heard by the camp around her, let alone anyone past the line of tents. With the crossroads secured the area feels safe enough for her to relax a little. Not a lot, just a bit. 

“What song is that?”

She pauses, looking over at the Herald. She’d almost forgotten he was there, sitting quiet by the fire for so long. “Oh. Storm Coast’s Claim. Just keeping myself entertained.”

He nods, breathing out pipe smoke. “My sister and I do the same on watches.”

“You sing?” She can’t help a bit of excitement. “What kind of songs do you learn in the Marches?”

“Songs about curses. Marchers are big on curses.” He grins around his pipe when she laughs. “Prefer Antivan songs.”

“Don’t hear those this far south. Could you… I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“_ De nada_, happy t’.” He leans back a little and takes a breath. He has a nice baritone and the song is soft, probably a lullaby. Harding lets her eyes close and relaxes. Just a bit.

  


* * *

  


He’s so dwarfy. She’d known that, she’d seen him in the square. But its just so cute. And for a high-and-mighty Herald he seems alright. Even if she does have to spell out things for him. "And then you got cloaks and spies like this tit. Or was he a little knife all obsessed with his... little knife."

The dwarf smirks. "Was wonderin' if that was socks down his pants."

"I bet it was! Should've taken his breeches, yeah?"

"That-" He snickers. "Walkin' int' that would've been fuckin' great." He holds up a small throwing knife and grins. "Bet mine's bigger, though."

Sera giggles. Not half-bad at all! At least he’s got a sense of humor.

  


* * *

  


He looks out of place, dressed for the road instead of the ballroom, holding himself like he's expecting an attack. Yet he's quick to step back from a fight and a dislike for death; she'd assume it an act but his eyes give him away. Antivan from the look of him, though his accent says Marcher. Natural or an affectation?

For his roughness he's at least well-mannered, respectfully addressing her with her full title. He's no fool, that much is plain, and wariness never leaves his gaze even as he bows to her. With a bit of polish he could go far in the court. She'll have to keep an eye on this one.


	4. Secret Keepers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to LuciFern for beta-reading and letting me ramble ideas!

He hadn’t realized. Thought the dwarf was some agent or soldier of the Inquisition, until he gets to Haven and Sister Leliana says, “So the Herald found you.”

It’s a bit much to get his head around. The Herald of Andraste coming all the way to the ass-end of nowhere to ask him a few questions. The Herald of Andraste a quiet, unassuming dwarf with a foul mouth.

Maybe it’s an act? He feels like an ass the second he thinks it, like he has any right to question who people are. But its one thing to take a name and run into the Hinterlands, it’s another to pretend to an entire Order. And the welcoming smile the dwarf gives him is too honest.  


Blackwall pushes his suspicions aside. He’ll assume the Herald is a good man until proven otherwise.

  


* * *

  


“Waitin’ for somebody?”

Krem jumps a little, reaching for his maul on reflex. The dwarf that he swears just fucking _appeared_ smiles sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“S’alright. Got a message for the Inquisition, but,” he waves to the bustle in the little town, “having a hard time getting anyone to stop for a second.”

“Well, I’m stopped. What’s the message?”

Fair enough. “My company got word of some Venatori on the coast. If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us work.”

The dwarf frowns, tilts his head as he looks Krem over. It’s not sneering or suspicious, so Krem doesn’t balk under his gaze. He must like whatever he sees because he nods. “Alright. We’ll be there. I’ll try not to sneak up on anybody.”

“Actually, if you can sneak up on the Iron Bull, I’ll be impressed.” Krem grins. “See you at the coast, messere.”

  


* * *

  


Bull’s seen viddathari and people in Seheron like Olek - shit, he’s been like that. On edge, expecting an attack from anywhere at anytime. At first he worries that the dwarf is going to be that wound up all the time, but he seems to relax in camp. So he recognizes safety, however temporary. Good.

“How’s your leg?” Bull asks.

Olek twitches, hand slipping inside his coat. Jumpy little bastard. “Oh. No need t’ fret, I’m good.”

Bull doubts that from the limping earlier. He gestures to the ground by the dwarf and Olek nods, shifting over a little to make a little more room by the fire. “Take anything for it?”

“Elfroot, when I need it.” The dwarf frowns a little.

“How often is that? Every day?”

“Not every, but close.”

That’s a lot of pain, damn. “Does it always help?”

Hesitation and Bull can see the question starting to form, but Olek just shakes his head. “E-everybody’s got bad days.”

Bull nods. “Can you still walk on it? Or you have to stay in bed?” He’s careful to keep his tone light. No shame or disapproval. There’s no shame in an old injury, but he suspects Olek hasn’t heard that a lot.

“In bed.”

“Locks up?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you feel it coming?”

“Sometimes.” Olek tilts his head. “Why all the questions about my leg?”

Bull shrugs. “Can’t be a good bodyguard if I don’t know where your body’s at, boss. I’m here to help out.”

The dwarf relaxes a little and nods. “...thanks, Bull.”


	5. Offers of Aid

Eavesdropping is a terrible habit, he knows, but it's useful. Curiosity has always been his favorite vice. So Dorian lingers in the hallway out of sight and listens as Felix takes his leave.

The Herald curses. Fair reaction.

"You alright, Nimble?"

"Did you see him? Sweet fuckin' Andraste, beddin' him would delight me!"

_Well_. That's not at all what he expected to hear. He's a little relieved - and flattered.

Soft laughter and a different voice speaks, the elf? "You may have the chance. He did say he would contact you."

"Pretty sure he meant the whole 'magister wants t' kill you' shit. Is that normal?"

"All part of the hero package," the other dwarf says cheerfully. "You get used to it."

"Dunno if I'm ever gettin' used t' this. So, back t' Haven, wait for Alexius t' move next?"

Their chatter starts to fade away and the Chantry doors creak open and shut. Dorian lets out a breath. All in all, rather promising. In a few unexpected ways.

  


* * *

  


_They're all looking at me. Why are they looking, what did I do, still singing, why are they kneeling? They keep staring, too many eyes on me. I can't be here-_

_Hurts. Every step, every heartbeat, too loud to think. One step after another, Maker fuck this hurts. Maybe - no, everyone else is tired and hurt too, can't be a burden-_

_Crumbling roofs, holes where birds and rats nest, scars of old battle. The Stone throughout, covering like a blanket, comforting, kind. Safe. When was the last time I felt safe?_

_She's leading to something, but- oh Maker fuck is she- she is, she wants me to lead- they want me to lead, so many people looking, why are they all looking, no no no I'm not a savior. Can't say no, they'll be angry. Say yes, take the sword. Are they still- they looked away, run. Run, get away, hide. Hide hide hide Maker I can't breathe-_

  


* * *

  


The mark glows, eerie green lighting up the natural patterns of his skin. She gently pokes around it before tapping it directly. It just feels like normal skin. Is the mark underneath, attached to muscle or bone? Or is it less physical, like a mage's abilities?

Which reminds her. She picks up a simple rune and holds it over his hand. The mark sparks and flickers and his fingers twitch. "Does this hurt?"

"Nah. Tingles a bit."

She glances up at Olek - not Inquisitor, he'd asked. "It's pretty. Wish I could see through it."

He tilts his head. "What d'you think you'd see?"

"Maybe a tiny window into the Fade. Or maybe just through your skin, or your entire hand."

"I'd really have t' cover it then." He smiles crookedly. "Still wonder what it is."

"Well, to me it says key. You use it to shut rifts. But keys can open a lot of different things."

"...I have a magical lockpick?" Olek looks at his hand in surprise. 

Dagna shrugs. "Have you tried it on a lock?" She immediately looks around to see if there's one nearby. Instead she finds a messenger; has he been standing there long?

"Inquisitor." When Olek doesn't respond the messenger coughs. "Inquisitor."

Olek jumps. "Shit, that's me. Right."

"Lady Montilyet wishes to speak with you."

He hesitates and looks to Dagna. She smiles. "Oh, don't let me keep you. Thanks for letting me look at the mark."

"_ De nada_." He stands with a wince. She watches his limping stride for a moment, then turns to the work station and grabs a fresh sheet of parchment, scribbling down ideas before they slip away.


End file.
